Part 2: Trials and Tribulations - The Clock Cleaner
by Queen's Bishop
Summary: The "Trials and Tribulations" of the squad continue with part 2 of this 4-part story.


_No infringement on the rights of the owners of "Combat!" is intended. This story is for the enjoyment of "Combat!" fans only, not for any monetary profit by the author._

_Thanks to JML for proofreading and to Susan Rodriguez for beta reading._

**Trials and Tribulations**

**Part 2: The Clock Cleaner**

**by: Queen's Bishop**

**()()()() indicates the passage of time or a shift in the action to another character or location**

**#### indicates the beginning or end of a flashback**

Summary of **Part 1: 'Only One Left Standing'** – After securing the small village of Saint François, the squad was sent on a reconnaissance patrol only to be felled by food poisoning.

()()()()()()()()()()

"Uh oh!"

"What's the matter, Billy?"

"Don't you see the sign, Littlejohn?"

"What sign?"

"That one right there," Billy said as he pointed to a large board leaning against the supply tent.

Littlejohn read the sprawled message out loud, "**ATTENTION ALL NCOs…MANDATORY TRAINING ON MILITARY COURTESY… SUPPLY TENT…2100 HOURS.**" He turned to Billy and shrugged his shoulders. "So?"

"Don't you see, Littlejohn? It's _mandatory_! The Sarge hasn't been released from the aid station yet."

"Billy, I'm sure it's okay. Third Squad's out on patrol so Sgt. Moore can't make it. It probably means it's mandatory for rear echelon NCOs. Don't worry about it."

"I'm still gonna let the Sarge know so he can get an excuse from the doctor."

Littlejohn rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Billy, this isn't like getting an excuse from a doctor so you don't have to take P.E. C'mon, let's get over to the kitchen truck. It's almost time for lunch and I'm hungry."

"Littlejohn, you're _always_ hungry," Nelson said as they walked away.

()()()()()()()()()()

Kirby spotted the sign. "Ya see that!?"

"What, mon ami?" asked the Cajun.

"That sign over there," he said as he pointed. "There must be a big poker game tonight. Boy, I'd give my eye teeth to be able to sit in on that."

"It says it's a training session on military courtesy. Why do you dink it's a poker game?"

"Military courtesy, HAH!…Don't make me laugh!…I wonder if the Sarge is gonna go?"

"He hasn't been released yet."

"He could still go. Maybe I should give him some pointers."

"Pointers? On what?"

"On playin' poker, what else!"

"What makes you dink he needs pointers?"

"Well, have ya ever seen him play?"

"No."

"I rest my case."

"Just because he doesn't play wid us doesn't mean he can't play. I don't dink it's a good idea for squad leaders to play poker wid dere men, anyway."

"Ah, that's a buncha malarkey. He probably don't play with us 'cause he don't know how an' don't wanna be embarrassed."

Caje shook his head. "Kirby, to quote Littlejohn, 'You're full of it!'...De chow line is forming. Dere's Billy and Littlejohn. Let's go."

()()()()()()()()()()

Doc was propped up in his cot reading. Saunders was sleeping. Because they had been the most seriously affected by the food poisoning, they were still recuperating. That suited the rest of the squad just fine. Things had been relatively quiet for the last few days, so Hanley was giving them some much needed rest. In fact, aside from the two men from First Squad, none of the other cots in the aid station were even occupied, which was why the sergeant thought he should be able to take a nice quiet afternoon nap.

When Doc looked up and saw his squad mates enter the tent, he immediately put a finger up to his lips to indicate they should be quiet.

The BAR man wrinkled his brow as he stared at the medic. "What's the matter, Doc? Ya got somethin' wrong with your mouth?" he asked in a loud voice.

"No, Kirby, he's signaling us to be quiet," Littlejohn whispered.

"Why? There ain't nobody here."

The sergeant rolled over and stared at his men. "Because, Kirby, some of us are trying to sleep," he growled.

"Oh! Sorry, Sarge. We didn't mean to wake you…" Billy was wound up so he just kept on talking, "…but now that you're awake, there's a mandatory meeting for all NCOs on Military Courtesy at 2100 in the supply tent. We thought you should know so you can get an excuse from the doctor."

"He don't need no excuse from no doctor. Sarge, I could go an' sit in for ya," offered Kirby.

"It's for NCOs, you goldbrick. You can't sit in for the Sarge," replied an exasperated Littlejohn.

"Listen, ya big moose, if the Sarge sent me to represent him, they'd let me play."

"Play what?" asked a bewildered Billy.

"Shut up, all of you!" Saunders rubbed his temples. He could feel a headache starting. "Doc, you got any aspirin?"

The medic looked from the sergeant to the rest of the squad. "Why don't you fellas let the Sarge get some sleep?"

Kirby, however, couldn't take the hint. "Listen, Sarge, if ya need any pointers, I'm your man."

"I don't need any pointers," Saunders responded.

"Pointers for what?" asked Billy, still not sure what was going on.

"Just so ya don't embarrass yourself…"

"Kirby, I know how to play poker…my grandmother taught me. Now GET OUT!"

Kirby started to laugh, "Your grandmother…" but Caje grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the tent before he could finish the sentence.

Saunders gave Littlejohn and Nelson an icy stare, and they, too, made a hasty exit.

"Your grandmother!?" the medic said.

"Yeah, Doc, my grandmother!"

The sergeant rolled over and pulled the blanket up until all the medic could see was his blonde hair. However, as he tried to go back to sleep, he couldn't help but smile as he thought of those happy hours sitting around Gram's kitchen table.

##########

"_Where's Chip goin', Momma?" asked Chris, the youngest of the Saunders boys._

"_Over to Gram's house to help her."_

"_Can I go, too? I can help her."_

"_Not this time, Chris. Chip is going to be painting…"_

"_An' I don't need you running around getting paint all over everything," Chip said as he entered the room._

"_Momma, pleeease," begged the little boy._

"_No. You can help me make some cookies…and lick out the bowl if you're good."_

_Chip breathed a sigh of relief. It was bad enough he was 'volunteered' to paint a couple of rooms for his grandmother, but it would be a complete disaster if Chris was underfoot. _

"_Thanks, Mom," he said._

"_Just take your time and do a good job."_

"_I will…I'm supposed to meet Charlie, so it shouldn't be too bad."_

"_That's the spirit!" _

_His mother gave him a kiss on the cheek and then held the door as she watched her eldest son bound down the porch steps and head off to meet his cousin._

_()()()()()()()()()()_

"_Where've you been? I've been waiting for hours."_

_Charlie looked at his watch. "I'm only twenty minutes late. Listen, you're gonna have to do this by yourself…"_

"_What!…C'mon, Charlie, you promised Gram that you'd help paint the rooms."_

"_Well, somethin's come up."_

"_Yeah, what's her name?"_

"_Elizabeth Barrett Browning."_

_Perplexed, Chip slowly said, "But, she's a poet."_

"_Yeah, an' when I recite "_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..." _to Jackie Trevor…well, let's just say you're too young to hear the rest."_

"_What do you mean I'm too young? I'm sixteen!"_

"_Yeah, a babe in the woods. There's a big difference 'tween bein' sixteen an' bein' eighteen. When you're older, you'll understand. Tell Gram somethin' came up, 'kay. See ya."_

_()()()()()()()()()()_

_Chip walked around to the kitchen door and knocked. Without Charlie to help out, he was resigned to spending the next several weeks painting. Not that he minded helping out his grandmother. He had always enjoyed spending time with his grandparents. It was just that now that he was older, he wanted to spend what little free time he had with his friends. As he knocked on the door, he could hear someone other than his grandmother talking._

_Gram, Mabel Saunders, opened the door. "Come on in, dear." She looked behind Chip. "Where's your cousin?"_

"_Something's come up, Gram, an' Charlie can't make it. But, don't worry, I'll get the painting done for you. It will just take a while longer than you'd planned."_

"_I'm sure it will be fine, dear. Don't fret about it."_

_Chip walked into the kitchen and saw two men he didn't know sitting at the table enjoying coffee and cookies._

"_Chip, these are a couple of friends of mine, Whitey and Dutch. They worked with your grandfather for years. The four of us were great friends and they've kept in touch since his death. Boys, this is my grandson, Chip, Charlie and Grace's eldest."_

_Chip shook hands with the two men. He knew all of Gram's neighbors but had never met any of his grandparents' friends. In fact, he had never thought about his grandparents even having friends. With the deaths of their two sons, he thought they only had each other, his mother, Aunt Ruth and their grandchildren. It seemed strange to him that they had other people in their lives._

"_Dear, come and look at the colors I've picked out."_

_Chip followed his grandmother into the parlor and saw all of the cans of paint. Inwardly, he groaned. _

'_This is gonna take forEVER,' he thought._

"_Now pay attention so you can tell your mother. We'll do my bedroom in this nice soft rose…and the kitchen in this green. It's called sea foam. What a lovely name. It will make the room so bright and cheery. I want the parlor to still be off white. That makes it look more formal."_

"_But with blue accents," they heard one of the men in the kitchen say._

"_Yes, with blue accents to match the drapes and davenport. It will all be so lovely."_

"_Gram, I thought you wanted me to help you pick out the paint today."_

"_Oh, but as you see, Whitey and Dutch helped me."_

"_Well, then I guess I'll get started putting up the tape. Which room do you want me to start in?"_

"_No need, dear. Whitey and Dutch can work on that tomorrow before you come."_

"_Then, what do you want me to do? Move some furniture?"_

"_No, dear. I want you to be our fourth."_

"_Your fourth!...Fourth what?"_

"_Poker player, of course."_

"_Gram, I don't know how to play poker."_

"_Exactly," she said with a sweet smile. "It's time you learned, and we're just the ones to teach you."_

_And teach him they did!_

_From then on each time he arrived at his grandmother's house, Whitey and Dutch had gotten a little more of the painting done. When he returned home in the evening, always with a bit of paint spattered on his old clothes for good measure, he dutifully reported to his mother the progress that had been made that afternoon. Not wanting to outright lie, he never said, 'I painted a wall in the parlor,' but instead, 'The parlor's coming right along.' He spent his time learning to be a poker player._

_First were the rules according to Hoyle. The mechanics of the game, Gram called them. After he learned the rules, he had to lay out his hand and explain how he would play it and why. His Gram and Dutch would smile approvingly or suggest alternative strategies. Soon they were playing for match sticks. His Gram sat at the kitchen table across from him and lit up a cigar, which initially shocked him. He realized there was really a lot he didn't know about his grandmother._

_They played for several days, and each time Chip watched as his pile of match sticks slowly dwindled. Even when he had a good hand and won the pot, it was small. _

_Then the day came when Gram looked seriously at her grandson. "Alright, Chip. Learning the mechanics was part one. Now it's time for you to learn how the game is REALLY played….Whitey…"_

_Up until that moment, Whitey had hardly said two words. Now he looked at the boy, as if sizing him up. Then he began. "There're four types of poker players…the pigeons, of which you are now officially one, along with maybe sixty to sixty-five percent of the rest of the players. These are the guys…an' ladies," he gave Mabel a slight nod, "who know the mechanics an' who think poker's a game of luck. Ya either get dealt a good hand or ya don't. Their sole purpose in the game is to lose their money…usually to roosters. _

"_Roosters 'think' they're good players. They have a better understandin' of the game an' know it's more than just the luck of the deal. There's some skill involved. They strut around an' delight in pickin' the pigeons bone dry an' afterwards crowin' about it. Roosters make up about thirty to thirty-five percent of the players. The sharks make up maybe five percent of the players…"_

"_Just so you know, dear, Whitey is a shark," his grandmother interjected._

"_WAS a shark, Mabel, just like you an' Dutch. An' just like you two, I'm retired…"_

_At this new piece of information Chip nearly fell off his chair. His dear, sweet, white-haired grandmother was a cigar smoking, poker playing card shark. He shook his head in disbelief. Next she would be telling him that she drank whiskey and was a friend of Al Capone's or John Dillinger's._

"_Did…did Grandpa know?" he asked timidly._

"_Well, of course, dear. He's the one who taught me how to play."_

"_Sam was the best, God rest his soul," Dutch chimed in._

"_Did Dad and Uncle John know?"_

_Mabel laughed. "Those boys…We did try to shelter them…They got into enough mischief on their own."_

"_Ahem…As I was sayin'…" Whitey said impatiently._

"_Oh, yes, so sorry to interrupt. Do go on, Whitey."_

"_As I was sayin', sharks are the real professional, if I may use that word, players. They feast on the roosters an' the pigeons. They're in the game to win, regardless of who else is playin'."_

"_Is that what you want me to be, Gram, a shark, like you an' Dutch an' Whitey?" Chip asked a bit nervously._

"_Oh, no, dear, you're going to be something better. You're gonna be a clock cleaner!"_

_She had said it so sweetly, 'a clock cleaner.' "What's THAT?" he asked._

"_A clock cleaner is a gentleman shark," answered Whitey._

"_That's such a nice way of putting it, Whitey. You see, dear, a clock cleaner COULD win but chooses not to until the time is right and then he cleans everyone's clock." She said it the same way she used to say, "We're going to bake some cookies and invite ALL the children in the neighborhood over for a treat."_

"_But, why would you choose not to win?" Chip was getting more and more confused._

_Now it was Dutch's turn, "Bein' a shark is fine if ya can move around, but if ya gotta stay in one place, ya get a reputation an' then nobody will play with ya. Understand, kid?"_

"_So you lose so that you can keep playing?" the boy, now totally confused, asked._

"_Don't think of it that way, dear. It's rather, you CHOOSE not to win, or at least not to win big. If the roosters think you're just a lucky pigeon because you break even or only win a little, they'll always welcome you back to play again, thinking that the next time they'll be able to 'pluck' you. You get to play and keep your game sharp until the time is right…"_

"…_an' the time is right when you meet a shark!" Dutch said with a bit too much delight._

_Whitey gave Chip a toothy grin. "Or, more than one in the game is even better!"_

"_An' then you become a shark, too?" Chip asked, finally beginning to understand._

"_Well, I prefer to think of it as you clean their clocks. 'Shark' has such a negative connotation. But, in essence, yes. You watch, circling your prey and when you're ready, you don't hold back." Gram smiled sweetly at Whitey and Dutch, who nodded in agreement. "Would anyone like another cookie?" she asked._

_From that point on, Chip was schooled in the finer points of the game that are not found in any rule book. He learned to look for and read the most subtle of tells, to study how the other players handled their cards, to remember situations when they bluffed, and to keep a 'poker face' or, if the situation required it, to display a tell. Gram said that not showing your emotions was the most important thing when playing high stakes poker. And, she said, it was a skill that would serve him well in the future, even when not playing poker. _

_Sitting around Gram's kitchen table, he learned and practiced all of those and many more of the little strategies that separated the sharks from the roosters. _

_When he was ready, Mabel, Whitey and Dutch took the boy to various games around town and he would play. After each game, on the drive home, they would discuss each of the hands and give him constructive criticism. _

"_Now, one final lesson, dear," Gram said to him. "You have to know when to quit. Don't let your pride keep you in a game with sharks who are better than you. They'll smell the blood and tear you to shreds. There's no shame in cashing in your chips and getting out of the game." _

_Although the painting was finished, about once a week Gram would call her daughter-in-law and ask if Chip was available for this or that small odd job around her house. When he arrived, Whitey and Dutch had already taken care of the task, if there had ever even been one. Then the four of them would set off in Whitey's old Studebaker in search of some high-stakes game. Or, they would just sit in the kitchen, laughing and playing for match sticks. It was all great fun._

_By that time, Chip could hardly picture his grandparents without thinking of them circling like sharks and moving in for the kill._

##########

At 2045, Saunders sat on the side of the cot and looked at Doc. He was feeling fine. He had felt fine the entire day, although he was still a bit worn out. It had been a long time since he had played poker. The last time was just before landing in North Africa. He lost all interest in cards right after that. But recently, as he watched his men play, he had begun to miss the game.

'Tonight,' he thought, 'might be a good time to sit in on a few hands.'

"You going to go to that 'meeting'?" Doc asked, as if he didn't know what it really was.

"It's mandatory, Doc," the NCO answered with a smile. "I'll only stay for a while."

"Well, just don't overdo it," the medic said sternly.

"Don't worry," he chuckled. "I won't."

'When,' he wondered, 'did Doc ever not worry about the members of the squad?'

After getting himself cleaned up and notifying the clerk on duty where he would be, the sergeant ambled over to the supply tent. He looked around at the other NCOs, greeting the ones he knew. He recognized a few others as members of King Company, and a couple he had never seen before.

'They must be from other companies,' he thought. 'News travels fast.'

The men were just deciding which stack of crates to sit at as there were enough players for three games to be going simultaneously, at least at first.

"Hey, Saunders! I didn't know if ya'd make it. Heard ya were pretty sick, that Kirby tried to poison the whole squad," said Cpl. Milner, who pushed papers for Cpt. Jampel at HQ.

That drew a laugh from everyone. It seemed that Pvt. William G. Kirby was well-known up and down the line.

"It wasn't Kirby's fault; just a bit of bad luck. Milner, you got a seat open at your table? I don't know how long I'll be able to play. I'm on furlough from the aid station."

"Sure. Pull up a crate…as long as ya ain't contagious."

That drew another big laugh. But, it was time for the men to get down to the purpose of the gathering. Saunders was a bit rusty, but all of the lessons he had learned at his Gram's kitchen table with Whitey and Dutch quickly came back to him. He played cautiously, watching the other players at his table, studying them just as he had been taught, noticing their tells and bluffing patterns. He initially chose not to exploit any weaknesses and he even purposefully lost a hand or two.

"Where'd ya learn to play?" one of the men asked when he gave an obvious tell and then lost when someone called his bluff.

"My grandmother taught me."

"Well, that explains it. Ya play like an old lady!"

Saunders smiled as the rest of the men laughed at his expense.

Only Milner didn't laugh. "Look, if ya ain't up to playin'…" he said quietly to Saunders.

"No, I'm fine. Deal the cards."

As the evening wore on, one by one the pigeons ran out of money and dropped out. The tables consolidated and the playing got more serious. Saunders was still in the game, the pile of bills in front of him neither shrinking nor growing very much. He studied the new players who joined from the other tables until he had a read on all of his adversaries.

'Now,' he thought, 'the fun begins.'

()()()()()()()()()()

Brockmeyer stepped out of the tent to get a breath of fresh air. He stretched and yawned and looked up at the clear night sky full of stars. As he pulled a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, a light suddenly appeared, so he bent into it, inhaling deeply.

"How's it goin in there?" Kirby asked.

"They're still at it…just five left."

"I wish I was in there playin'…The Sarge watchin'? He ain't gone back to the aid station yet."

"Watchin'? He's one of the five who's left."

"You're kiddin' me!"

"Kirby, I wouldn't kid about a thing like that."

Brockmeyer took a few more drags before he crushed out his cigarette and re-entered the tent leaving Kirby to ponder the caliber of the competition.

()()()()()()()()()()

The game continued on for several more hours, much to the delight of many of the NCOs. It wasn't often that a front line sergeant or corporal sat in on one of the infrequent 'training sessions.' They were usually on patrol or trying to get a little sleep. The First Squad sergeant was basically giving the other three players left at the table a tutorial, and they weren't very happy about it, having 'ruled the roost' for the last several gatherings.

Saunders, however, was tired. He decided it was time for him to exit the game. He had been looking for the right set-up for the last few hands. Finally, he had what he was looking for and he began to raise. The other three men couldn't tell whether he was bluffing or sitting on a pat hand. One folded and picked up the few bills he had left from the table. The other two saw his wager and raised. Inwardly, the sergeant smiled, but his expression didn't change. He covered the bet and raised again. Another man dropped out.

The last player, a motor pool corporal named Foster, covered the bet but said, "Let's see what ya got, big man." He was holding two pairs and he was positive the sergeant was bluffing.

Saunders smiled. "Full house…kings over sevens."

Foster slammed his fists down on the make-shift table and rose up off his crate.

"Hey," Brockmeyer said as he also stood. He spoke quietly, but immediately had the attention of everyone. "Don't be a sore loser. He beat ya fair an' square."

Foster didn't respond as Saunders raked in the pot, stuffing the bills into his trouser pockets as he stood.

Brockmeyer turned to him. "Want me to walk with ya back to the aid station?"

"No, that won't be necessary."

"So, your grandmother taught ya how to play?"

"Yeah, my Gram was quite the poker player," Saunders responded with a smile.

The corporal followed the sergeant to the tent flap. The two men stepped out into the cool early morning air where fog was beginning to form. Kirby appeared out of the darkness. "Hey, Sarge, how'd ya do?"

"He cleaned every clock in the place!" Brockmeyer answered with a touch of pride in his voice.

"Boy, that musta been some poker game if the Sarge was the big winner!" the BAR man responded with a laugh.

Saunders didn't say anything. He just gave Kirby a grin. Brockmeyer thought it looked like the grin of a wild animal sizing up his next meal. The three men walked over to the aid station where they dropped off the sergeant. As they headed back up the rise to return to Saint François, Saunders listened to Brockmeyer filling Kirby in on the details of the game until their voices faded into the night.

()()()()()()()()()()

The sergeant thought he would fall right to sleep. He was certainly tired enough, and getting to sleep had never been a problem for him. But instead, he tossed and turned. The aid station seemed hot and stuffy, even though there were only Doc, the clerk and himself inside the big tent. Finally, he got up, put his boots back on and, out of habit, grabbed his helmet and Thompson from under his cot. Yesterday he had asked Caje to bring him his gear since he anticipated his release the next day.

Outside, the early morning air felt good. Saunders walked over to a large oak tree and leaned against it, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it as he stared off into the darkness and watched the wisps of fog dancing on the slight breeze. He wondered what was bothering him. It certainly wasn't his playing. He had handled the cards exactly as he was taught, and that brought a smile to his face. His Gram would have been proud. It was that phrase, 'he cleaned every clock in the place.' It had been a long time since he had heard it.

##########

_During Basic Training, Chip kept his poker skills under wraps. Just as Whitey and Dutch had foretold, he saw that sharks quickly wore out their welcome. So, anytime a game started, he played as a clock cleaner with the other men in his company, never winning enough to be unwelcome or conspicuous. _

_After Basic, when he got a pass, he would venture into town and find a game where he could display his prowess. The first time, he went by himself and he learned the painful lesson that not everyone was a good loser, especially in an Army town. After the profitable outing, he was jumped by three guys as he passed an alley. It wasn't much of a fight until another soldier appeared to help even the odds. The three men took off, leaving Saunders bloodied and battered. As he leaned against the wall to catch his breath, he looked at the soldier who had come to his aid._

"_Thanks," he said offering his hand. "Chip Saunders."_

_The other man laughed. "My pleasure; Grady Long," he said as he shook the offered hand. "I watched you play. You're good, but not too smart. Did you really think they'd let you just walk away with all their money?"_

_After that, Grady and one or two other guys from their outfit who knew how to keep their mouths shut always accompanied him. He gave each of those bodyguards a five percent share of the winnings for seeing that he got back to base unscathed. However, his pal Grady never took anything for providing the protection._

_Meanwhile, the Nazis in Europe and the Japs in the Pacific continued their rampages._

_Saunders did well as a soldier, showing as much of an aptitude for quiet leadership in camp as he did for poker playing when he had a pass. That natural ability was recognized, and he finished up his advanced infantry training as a private first class. After a quick visit home and a tearful goodbye, he and the rest of the 168__th __Regimental Combat Team boarded a ship that was part of a large U.S. armada. Together with ships loaded with massive numbers of tanks and other armored vehicles, they set sail for Tunisia, North Africa. They would be part of the United States' first offensive move against the Nazis._

_The men's spirits were high. They were sure they would prove to be more than just an even match for the Krauts. They expected to enter the fray, much as the Americans had in the Great War, and have Germany beat in six months, if not sooner. Then they would deal with Japan._

_On board the rolling ships, to pass the time when they weren't being seasick or homesick, the men played poker. Saunders sat in on a few games or just watched the action, gauging the competition. One day his sergeant cornered him._

"_Saunders!"_

"_Yes, Sgt. Perry."_

"_When are ya gonna play?"_

_Saunders gave his sergeant his most innocent smile, the one that made him look even younger than the eighteen year old he was usually taken for. "I don't know what you mean, Sarge. I've been playing."_

"_Ya know exactly what I mean. Just be aware that tomorrow's our last day at sea. We'll be dockin' the day after, so ya might not get another chance."_

_Saunders smiled again. "Thanks for the information, Sarge."_

_The next day the action started at first light. Saunders didn't jump right in. He watched from the sidelines for a couple of hours as the roosters finished off the pigeons who hadn't previously been picked clean. Only then did he accept the offer to take an empty seat in one of the games. As the day dragged on, the games consolidated and at dusk play moved below deck as all of the ships in the convoy went dark. _

_The young Pfc. held his own, only being conspicuous in the fact that he was a relatively unknown player at this level. It was, as usual, a source of amusement when the other players found out he had learned the game from his grandmother, a fact he took no pains to hide. For Saunders, this was going to be his tribute to his beloved Gram who had passed away just before he shipped out._

_By late evening, the play had taken on a more serious dimension as the various tables continued to consolidate. At last, there was only one game left, five well-known sharks and the baby-faced, blonde haired, blue eyed Pfc. The game was surrounded by a mass of soldiers and off-duty sailors eager to watch the action. Saunders' 'body guards,' led by his now close friend Grady, along with his sergeant, were all nearby, keeping an eye on both the game and the other men who milled around. Each play was called out and that call then echoed through the ship for those on duty or who couldn't get close enough to see the action._

_Two of the sharks were eliminated, but still the game continued as the hours slowly passed. _

_Saunders picked up his cards and held them close to his chest as he fanned them with his thumb, just enough to see what kind of hand he had been dealt; the two of hearts, the jack of spades, the ten of diamonds, the ace of hearts, and the four of hearts. Not much to work with. He decided to match the bets until he traded in two cards to see what he drew, and then he would fold. It was only the training he received at his grandmother's kitchen table that kept the entire ship from knowing he had filled the flush._

'_Now,' he thought, 'time to move in for the kill.'_

_The pot grew in size as bets were made and matched. Saunders appeared a bit nervous, checking his cards or running his hand through his hair, but, in the end, he always matched the bet. Two more sharks fell by the wayside. There was just a big sergeant named Patterson from Able Company and Saunders left. He called and Patterson lay down his hand._

"_Four lovely ladies," he said with a smile as he put his cards on the table. He reached to rake in the pot._

"_Not so fast," the youthful looking Pfc. said. "I believe a straight flush, even a baby one, beats four of a kind."_

_The entire ship erupted as word spread from deck to deck. After Saunders claimed the pot, Grady, Sgt. Perry and the rest of his body guards closed ranks and quickly escorted him away from Patterson and the rest of Able Company. He paid off his 'protection,' gave the Paymaster $1,000 to send home to his mother and still had enough left for 'seed money' for another game. _

_As they headed back to the squad's assigned sleeping quarters on the ship, Sgt. Perry said, "You're a hell of a player, Saunders. Ya cleaned every clock on this tub!"_

_The Pfc. smiled at the unwitting reference to his grandmother's lessons. "I just got lucky," he replied._

"_Uh huh. Well, stick close to the rest of the squad 'til after we land an' get settled."_

"_Okay, Sarge, but you don't have to worry about me."_

"_I always worry 'bout my guys, Saunders. That's what mothers an' sergeants do, worry."_

_The baby-faced Pfc. laughed. "Sarge, I never pictured you as much of a mother hen."_

"_Well then, let's just keep it as our secret," Perry said with a grin._

_()()()()()()()()()()_

_As they headed out, the Third Squad, First Platoon of Fox Company was as confident of a quick victory as the rest of the forward elements of the 168__th __Regimental Combat Team. The hot winds whipping the stinging sand did little to dampen their spirits. By evening, the men of the 168__th__ were dug in on the Lessouda and Ksaira djebels (hills) of the Kasserine Pass, awaiting the upcoming battle. It was February 13th, 1943. On Valentine's Day, the 1__st__ Armored Division would move to catch up with the forward infantry units, closing the gap between them as the Americans advanced against the forces of Field Marshal Erwin Rommel's Afrika Korps._

_The Krauts, however, had other plans. In the early morning hours of February 14__th__, under the cover of darkness and a sand storm, they skirted the Lessouda and Ksaira djebels, cutting them off as they attacked the rest of the unsuspecting troops, launching a ten-day battle._

_()()()()()()()()()()_

_Fox Company was dug In, but the German shelling was intense. The men were caught between the screams of incoming shells, the screams of wounded men and the screams of scared young soldiers facing their initiation to combat. Third Squad hunkered down deeper in their fox holes, awaiting the return of their squad leader. Sgt. Perry had been told to report to the platoon leader. _

_Pfc. Saunders cautiously peeked over the rim of his fox hole, looking for the sergeant. He saw him, one minute running hunched over back to the squad, and the next minute flying through the air as a shell exploded nearby. Saunders crawled out of his fox hole and dragged the wounded NCO back. The sergeant lay across his lap. His left leg was gone, ripped off at the knee, and blood was gushing from a shrapnel wound in his belly. _

_Sgt. Perry reached up and grabbed the lapel of the Pfc.'s field jacket with a bloody hand, pulling the young soldier's face close to his own. "Nobody's coming to help…Find an officer…NCO…Make it back home as best you can…" he gasped._

_Saunders sat back as the grip on his field jacket was released and Sgt. Perry's arm dropped to the ground. The NCO was dead. Saunders looked at his shattered body then turned his head and vomited._

"_What are we gonna do?" asked Grady, his head suddenly appearing over the rim of the fox hole. _

_Saunders looked up into his friend's wide eyes, the shock of the sergeant's death replaced by the fear that he would have to witness the deaths of the rest of his friends._

"_We gotta find another NCO an' get outa here. That's what the Sarge said to do."_

"_Good luck with that…ya can't see, let alone move ten feet with this shellin'…how ya gonna find another NCO?"_

"_Second Squad was on our right."_

"_Not anymore…we gotta get outa here before this shellin' gets us all."_

_Saunders shifted the sergeant's dead weight off his legs. "Okay. You get Rozelli an' Cutter. I'll get the rest of the guys."_

_The remaining men of Third Squad made their retreat from Lessouda, following Pfc. Saunders._

_()()()()()()()()()()_

"_Sir, six men were stopped at the Item checkpoint. They claim they're from the 168__th__."_

"_Alright, Sergeant, bring them here."_

_The captain looked at the six men who stood before him in a ragged line. They were dirty, with torn uniforms and sunburned and wind burned faces. The men wearily came to attention and saluted. The officer returned the salute._

"_I'm Cpt. Dale. What outfit are you men from?" he asked._

"_Sir, the 168__th__, Fox Company First Platoon. We're the Third Squad," a baby-faced Pfc. with an unruly mop of blonde hair and tired blue eyes responded._

"_What's your name, soldier?"_

"_Saunders, Sir. Pfc. John Saunders."_

"_Well, Saunders, who's your NCO and where is he?"_

"_Sgt. Perry, Sir. He was killed three…no four days ago. His last order was to make it back to our lines as best we could."_

"_An' that's what we did, Sir. We followed Saunders an' here we are," Grady said with a grin._

"_Yeah," said Rozelli, "we'd follow Saunders through the gates of hell…Sir."_

"_An' Sir, I think we did!" chimed in Andrews with a laugh._

"_It was tough, Sir, but we made it!" Grady added._

"_Grady, you guys, shut up!" Saunders growled at his squad mates._

"_Well, somebody's gotta tell 'em what ya done 'cause you ain't gonna," Cutter replied._

_Turning to the captain, Saunders asked, "How many from the 168__th__ made it back, Sir?"_

"_Not many I'm afraid," the captain responded._

_Rozelli sighed and shook his head. "I guess them Krauts sure cleaned our clock," he quietly said._

"_Alright, alright…Sgt. Reynolds will get you men settled. Get a shower and a hot meal. Report back here in forty-eight hours. You'll be reassigned to a different outfit," Cpt. Dale said._

"_Sir, could we stay together?" Saunders asked as the rest of the men nodded in agreement._

"_I'll see what I can do. Dismissed."_

()()()()()()()()()()

_Forty-eight hours later they learned they would be kept together. And, Pfc. Saunders received another stripe for the initiative he had demonstrated. _

_For a few short days they enjoyed a youthful feeling of invincibility for having survived what so many others had not. But, then a shell landed near Rozelli and their invincibility was torn to shreds along with the young private's body._

_During their next twenty-four hour pass, a drunken brawl resulted in the newly minted corporal losing his stripes._

##########

"Do you think he's back yet?" Billy asked quietly for the fifth time in the past half hour.

"Who?" responded Littlejohn, as if he didn't know.

"Kirby. Do you think Kirby's back yet from the Sarge's meeting?"

"I don't know. Maybe…" Littlejohn stopped mid-sentence and looked out into the early morning fog. The sky was just beginning to lighten. Whispering, he said, "Did you hear that?"

Billy looked at his friend, his youthful face suddenly taut with tension. "Yeah." He only breathed the word.

Littlejohn continued to stare beyond their foxhole just outside of Saint François. "Go tell the lieutenant we got company an' let the squad know," he softly said.

Nelson crawled out of the foxhole and crouched as he ran down the main street of the village. He stuck his head into the squad's little house and said, "Krauts," in a low voice. That was enough to rouse Caje. When Billy reached the CP, he didn't bother to knock. He rushed over to where Brockmeyer lay, stretched out on the floor. He was about to lean over and wake him when he realized he was looking down the barrel of the corporal's rifle.

"It's me, Billy…Nelson…me an' Littlejohn think there's Krauts moving up," he said anxiously.

"I'll wake the lieutenant. You get Second Squad," the corporal said as he stood and grabbed his helmet.

By the time Billy returned to the sentry post, Caje was already in the foxhole beside Littlejohn. Within minutes they were joined by Lt. Hanley and Sgt. Dickens from Second Squad. The men listened for a moment before the lieutenant quietly gave his orders.

"Brockmeyer, get me King Six. Caje, move First Squad off to the right. Dickens, cover the left flank."

()()()()()()()()()()

Saunders finished his cigarette and stretched and yawned before heading back to the aid station. The sun was just coming up, but he figured he could still get a few hours of sleep. The clerk on duty had his head down on the desk as the sergeant quietly entered the tent. He had just sat down on his cot to take his boots off when he heard the all too familiar whistle of a Kraut 88. "HIT IT!" he yelled just before the first artillery shell slammed into the ground at King Company's HQ and exploded. It was rapidly followed by two more. Then there was a pause in the shelling.

The sergeant crawled over to Doc's cot and felt around for the medic, but he wasn't there. "DOC!" he called and got an immediate response from the other side of the cot.

"Ah'm getting mah boots on."

"Finish up later. Grab your gear an' get out of here."

The two men rushed to the tent flap. They found the clerk hiding under his desk.

"C'mon. We'll find a hole outside," the sergeant said to the young soldier.

"No, it's safe in here. This is an aid station. They won't hit an aid station," the clerk responded in a panicky voice.

The medic grabbed his arm and dragged him outside just as the sound of more shells could be heard. The men hit the ground as another cluster of three exploded around the HQ. Saunders led the two other men to a newly created crater and they hunkered down as a third round of shells sent shrapnel flying in all directions. A shell from that volley landed on the aid station as the clerk watched in horror.

In the lull after the third shell, the cries of "MEDIC!" could be heard. Doc immediately started to push himself up, but Saunders pulled him back down.

"Ah gotta go!" the medic responded, pulling away from his sergeant.

"You stay here. I'll bring the wounded to you," he said. "It'll be safer for everyone."

With that, he was off, running toward the nearest call for help. He reached the soldier just as the sound of incoming could again be heard. Saunders threw himself over the wounded soldier.

"Lay still," he said, speaking directly into the man's ear. "I'll get you out in just a minute."

"Thanks for comin'. I thought I was gonna die alone," the soldier answered.

As soon as the shelling paused again, Saunders rolled off the wounded man and prepared to pick him up to carry him back to Doc, but the man was already dead.

()()()()()()()()()()

"Lieutenant, I can't raise King Six." Brockmeyer whispered to Lt. Hanley.

Artillery shells were exploding behind them on the other side of the rise. The men of the Second Platoon prepared for what they knew would be coming…the Kraut infantry moving up under the barrage. They waited, every man staring into the fog that was faintly lit by the first morning rays of the sun.

()()()()()()()()()()

One…two…three…Saunders counted the shells then took off, heading for another wounded man calling for a medic. The third one he carried back to Doc was Cpt. Jampel, King Company's CO. He had a piece of shrapnel in his shoulder and was bleeding profusely.

"Get Lt. Hendricks…and the radio," he said as Doc cut open his field jacket and shirt to expose the wound.

Saunders headed back to where he had found the captain. The First Platoon lieutenant was nearby with his belly splayed open and his intestines spilling out. There was nothing Doc or anyone else could do for him. The radio was several feet away, so the NCO scooped it up and was able to reach another wounded man before the next volley of shells arrived. One of those hit the company's ammo supply and the munitions went off like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Saunders and the wounded man pressed themselves into the dirt and waited for the explosions to subside.

As the last of the munitions finally blew up, an eerie calm fell over the area, broken only by the cries and groans of the wounded and the muted sound of small arms fire drifting in from the other side of the rise.

()()()()()()()()()()

At barely half strength, Second Platoon didn't stand much of a chance of turning back the Kraut onslaught. Still, they managed to hold for a few minutes before the lieutenant was forced to give the order to 'fall back.'

()()()()()()()()()()

Saunders stood and looked around. The area was lit up as much by the many small fires as it was by the early morning sun. He could see men coming out of the craters where they had sought shelter, stumbling around as if in shock. He knew the Krauts would be coming over the rise if Second Platoon couldn't hold them off. He started yelling orders to a squad from First Platoon and to rear echelon soldiers even as he ran back to see how the captain was doing.

"YOU THREE, START MOVING ALL OF THE WOUNDED BACK 300 YARDS. YOU TWO, PICK UP ANY WEAPONS OR AMMO YOU CAN FIND. YOU FOUR, DRAG ANYTHING YOU CAN GET YOUR HANDS ON TO BUILD A DEFENSIVE PERIMETER AT THE TREE LINE!"

Cpt. Jampel was unconscious when Saunders got back to Doc. He grabbed a couple of rear-echelon men and had them and the clerk from the aid station move the captain and the rest of the men Doc was tending back behind the defensive perimeter he was establishing. The medic started to go with them, but the sergeant grabbed his arm.

"Doc, check out the aid station first. See if there's anything you can salvage."

The NCO quickly scanned the area to check on the progress being made on his orders. It seemed the initial shock was over and men were moving as he had directed. He went to the radio and tried to reach Hanley, but got no response.

Saunders could still hear the sounds of small arms fire on the other side of the rise. He considered taking the men he had and leading them to Saint François but rejected that idea. It would be difficult enough to hold the Krauts off at an established defensive perimeter. But, to reach the village they would have to cross an open field. With no response from Hanley, he put in another call.

"Archangel, this is White Rook. Come in Archangel. Over….Archangel, this is White Rook. Come in Archangel. Over."

At Battalion HQ a corporal called over to the XO. "Maj. Burns, there's a transmission from White Rook for Archangel."

The colonel looked up from the report he was working on. "White Rook…White Rook…" He furrowed his brow. "Okay, King Company uses chess pieces. I'll take it, Corporal."

The corporal waited for the major to switch on the radio at his desk.

"White Rook, this is Archangel. Over."

"Archangel, the chess board has been hit by an artillery barrage. King Six is wounded. King One is dead. King Three an' Four and all their pawns are supporting Love Company. King Two is under attack but holding at Phase Line Green. Over."

"Roger, White Rook. Wait one." Maj. Burns turned to the corporal. "Get Col. Dale in here on the double."

When the colonel arrived, he and the XO huddled over the map, locating where King Company's HQ and Saint François, the company's forward position sitting at Phase Line Green, were. Col. Dale picked up the receiver.

"White Rook, this is Archangel. Are you there? Over"

"Yes. Archangel, I'm here."

"White Rook, the Krauts must NOT be allowed to break through Phase Line Green at your location. That would allow them to flank Love. Your position must be held at all costs. Do you roger?"

"Roger. Archangel."

"I'm calling Ramrod at the Fire Direction Center for an artillery barrage at your forward position and the chess board. Do you roger? Over."

"NEGATIVE, Archangel! NEGATIVE! We are still holding at Phase Line Green and establishing a defensive perimeter at the chess board. NEGATIVE on artillery. Can you send reinforcements? Over."

"Wait one, White Rook. Over."

The colonel turned the transmitter off and looked at his XO.

"If they break through, we've had it. Love is barely hanging on as it is," the colonel said. "Are there any units available to send?"

"No, Sir. Everything close by is supporting Love. It will take too long to pull in other units."

The CO studied the map before turning the transmitter back on.

"White Rook, are you still there. Over."

"Yes, Archangel, I'm here. Over."

"White Rook, we have no units available. Repeat, you are on your own. You have twenty minutes. Ramrod will have the coordinates. If he does NOT hear from you in twenty minutes, the fire mission will proceed. Do you roger? Over."

"Roger, Archangel. Twenty minutes. White Rook, over and out."

Saunders looked at his watch. He had bought the men at King Company HQ and Hanley and the rest of the platoon who were fighting in Saint François twenty minutes. He hoped it was enough time.

()()()()()()()()()()

As they fell back into Saint François, the house to house fighting became fierce. The men of Second Platoon took advantage of their intimate knowledge of the village, having been billeted there for over a week. Cellar walls that had collapsed allowed them to move behind the Krauts, reappearing in houses the Germans thought they had already cleared. Buildings that seemed to be nothing but a pile of rubble allowed soldiers to hide and catch the advancing enemy in cross-fires.

But, in the end, the sheer number of Krauts couldn't be overcome and the Americans continued to fall back. Eventually, they were faced with having to retreat through the field of overgrown weeds and then up the rise. There were no more shells falling on the company HQ, but what awaited the platoon on the other side of the small hill was unknown. Hanley gave the order for the men to retreat.

()()()()()()()()()()

Archangel turned to the corporal at the switchboard. "Get me Ramrod at the Fire Direction Center." He looked at his XO. "Determine the coordinates for the chess board and the village on Phase Line Green."

When he had them, the colonel gave Ramrod the coordinates for the two targets and told him to await the order to fire from either himself or White Rook. He checked his watch. In eighteen minutes he would give the order to shell those two areas. He would sacrifice what was left of King Company, hoping it would not be too late to stop the Krauts from punching a big hole in the line.

"Major," Col. Dale said, "find out who this White Rook is. When this is over, I'm going to personally skin him and nail his hide to the wall."

()()()()()()()()()()

Saunders picked up a pair of field glasses as he trotted back to the defensive perimeter. He knew if Archangel turned the 105s on the area that had been King Company HQ, the men now manning the perimeter would be caught in the barrage. He ordered the wounded to be moved back another 300 yards. He checked his watch and then began scanning the rise to see if anyone was coming over the top.

He spotted Rodriquez from Second Squad. Before rushing forward to meet the private, he gave the rear echelon troops orders to wait at the perimeter and to not fire until he told them to. Rodriquez came down the slope and upon seeing Saunders, he stopped and bent over, putting his hands on his knees, to try to catch his breath.

"We couldn't hold 'em, Sarge…There was just too many…Lt. Hanley gave the order to retreat… Zuzzio got hit an' Sgt. Dickens stopped to help him up an' they both got cut to ribbons."

Saunders put his hand on the private's shoulder. "Okay, Rodriguez. Fall back to the tree line. A bunch of rear echelon guys are there, so you go an' help them out. Hold your fire until I open up."

Rodriguez nodded and began walking across what was left of the company HQ.

The NCO continued to scan the top of the rise. He spotted a couple more men from Second Squad and then Nelson and Littlejohn. Billy was holding his arm, but they were both moving under their own power. He moved up the slope to meet them.

"Where's the lieutenant?" he asked Littlejohn when they got close enough.

The big private turned and looked back over his shoulder. "He told us to go, Sarge. I thought he was right behind us."

"Alright. How's the arm, Nelson?"

"It's okay, Sarge. Boy, am I glad to see you. Is Doc all right?"

"Yeah, he's fine. Littlejohn, go down to the bottom of the rise an' stay there to relay a hand signal. Nelson, go to the tree line. I'm moving up to the top an' will signal either to come ahead or I'll give you a safe sign like in baseball. If you see that, move the defensive perimeter back another 400 yards an' dig in. You got it?"

"Okay, Sarge," Littlejohn said as Nelson nodded in agreement.

Saunders checked his watch. Only six minutes left. He picked up the radio and called into Ramrod. Once he made contact, he told him to, "Wait one," and he scrambled up to the top of the rise.

()()()()()()()()()()

All of Second Squad had gone. Hanley signaled Caje and Kirby to head out, zigzagging to the left. He looked at Brockmeyer and the two of them started leapfrogging to the right. The Krauts were just a building behind them. Kirby stopped and dropped to one knee, firing the BAR as Caje ran past him. Run, drop and fire…run, drop and fire…the sweat running down their faces and their hearts pounding in their chests. Over to their right they saw the lieutenant go down. Brockmeyer circled back and scooped up the taller man, throwing him over his shoulder. He continued running in a zigzag pattern. The Krauts were out of the village chasing after them. Run, drop and fire…the bottom of the rise was just ahead.

Caje reached the slope and slipped behind a tree. He turned to provide cover fire for Kirby and Brockmeyer. Suddenly, the Krauts stop chasing them and returned to the village. The scout breathed a sigh of relief. He and Kirby went over to Brockmeyer. The corporal had just laid the unconscious lieutenant on the ground and taken up a position behind a tree.

"You need help?" asked Kirby.

Brockmeyer watched the Krauts as he took a couple of deep breaths. "Just to get him up an' over my shoulder," he replied.

Caje and Kirby helped to pull the lieutenant up and then eased him onto Brockmeyer's shoulder. The corporal stood for a moment, shifting the lieutenant slightly before starting up the rise. As they neared the top, they were met by Saunders.

"Anyone else down there?" he asked.

"No, Sarge. We're it. Looks like them Krauts had orders to regroup in the village," Kirby replied.

"Okay. Brockmeyer, all of the wounded are about 600 yards behind the defensive perimeter. Caje, Littlejohn's at the bottom of the rise. Tell him to wave the men forward when the artillery barrage ends. Kirby, you're on me," Saunders said.

"What we gonna do, Sarge?" the BAR man asked.

As Brockmeyer and Caje started down the back side of the rise, Saunders turned the radio back on.

"Ramrod, this is White Rook. Come in, Ramrod. Over."

"White Rook, I have the coordinates. Over."

"Ramrod, target Saint François on Phase Line Green only. Repeat, target Phase Line Green position only. Do you roger? Over."

"Roger White Rook, Saint François only. Over."

The sergeant signaled Kirby to follow him and they moved to a better vantage point. About thirty seconds later, a single 105 opened up.

"Left 200, Ramrod. Left 200. Fire for effect."

Kirby watched the shells rain down on Saint François. After a few minutes he said, "Not much left down there, Sarge."

Saunders looked down and could see a few Krauts fleeing the devastated village.

"Ramrod, this is White Rook. Are you there, Ramrod? Over."

"White Rook, this is Ramrod. Over."

"Cease fire. Repeat. Cease fire. Thanks for your help. Over."

"Anytime, White Rook. Over and out."

About thirty seconds later, the 105s fell silent. "C'mon, Kirby, let's go," he said as he picked up the radio and started down toward the village.

"Sheez, Sarge, couldn't we just wait for a minute 'til…whoa…OOOOOH!" Kirby yelped as he stumbled and lost his balance, smashing into the sergeant and sending both of them tumbling the rest of the way down the hill. They landed near the bottom, a tangle of arms, legs, weapons and the radio. For a moment there was silence as the two stunned men tried to collect themselves.

"Kirby, you okay?"

"I think my wrist is broken."

Saunders rolled over and got to his knees. He saw the BAR man holding his right wrist so he gently took the arm and began moving his hands down from elbow, feeling for the bone. Kirby winced but didn't cry out as the sergeant probed the wrist.

"It doesn't feel like anything's broken. Can you move your fingers?"

Kirby opened and closed his fist a couple of times.

"Try moving your wrist."

Kirby bent and twisted his wrist. "Okay, but it hurts."

"It's probably just a sprain. Can you still fire the BAR?"

"Yeah. I'll just prop it on my arm."

"Why don't you put the legs down?"

"Aw, Sarge, they're more trouble then they're worth."

"Then why don't you take them off instead of carrying them all the time?"

Kirby looked dumbfounded. "'Cause, Sarge, I might need 'em sometime."

Now it was Saunders' turn to look astonished. "Kirby, your logic never ceases to amaze me," was all he could say as he stood and looked at the BAR man.

"Yeah, sometimes I amaze myself…Hey, you're bleedin'."

The NCO looked down at his trousers and saw the torn and blood soaked patch below his right knee and down the side of his leg. He hadn't felt anything before, but now as he flexed his knee he knew he had banged it on something as they had tumbled down the hill.

The rest of the men arrived, including Doc, who immediately spotted the blood.

"Let me take a look at that," he said.

"Later, Doc. We've got to flush out the village first. Rodriquez, take the BAR. Kirby, carry the radio."

"But, Sarge, my wrist…"

Saunders just glared at him. Littlejohn laughed as he picked up the radio.

"Here, goldbrick, I'll help you."

"Thanks a lot, ya big moose."

The sergeant winced as he took a step forward.

"Sarge, Ah need to look at that leg now. Caje can start flushing out the village." Doc surveyed the devastation before adding, "Not that there's much left to flush out."

"Later, Doc...Caje…"

"Right, Sarge…"

The Cajun signaled the rest of the men to spread out and continue moving forward. Saunders took another step and then sighed as he sat. Doc worked the pant leg up and cleaned off the arced cut that ran first across the shin just below the knee and then turned and headed down the sergeant's leg for several inches.

"You've got a deep nasty cut and a lot of bruising. What did you hit?"

"It was more like what hit me; Kirby and his BAR."

"Well, you're going to need it cleaned out real good and some stitches."

"Later, Doc, just bandage it up for now."

Doc knew from experience there was no point in arguing. Unless he was seriously wounded, the sergeant would put off taking care of himself until after he completed whatever mission he had been given. So, the medic liberally dusted the area with sulfa powder and wrapped a bandage tightly around the leg, taping it in place. When he was finished, he offered a hand to help Saunders get back on his feet. The sergeant winced and limped as the two men headed across the field toward the smoking ruins of what used to be the little village of Saint François, but he kept moving.

Sometimes,' thought Doc, 'you're your own worst enemy.'

()()()()()()()()()()

It had been three days since the early-morning attack on Saint François was repulsed. The wounded were evacuated and King Company resupplied. With their inability to flank the Americans, the Germans had been forced to end their attack on Love Company. All of the squads that had reinforced the line in that sector were released, and King Company returned to its usual strength.

The weary men of the Second Platoon who had repulsed the flanking maneuver were finally relieved, and First Squad received twenty-four hour passes. They immediately hitched a ride on a supply truck back to Battalion HQ. They looked forward to getting a shower, preferably hot but at that point it didn't matter, and some much needed rest on real cots instead of dozing in fox holes as they had been doing. First stop, however, was battalion aid to check on their lieutenant. The squad settled down outside a château which now housed the hospital while their sergeant went inside.

()()()()()()()()()()

Saunders got directions to the lieutenant's room and rapped on the jamb of the open door.

"Hi, Lieutenant. How're you doing?" He looked at the soldier in the other bed. "Oh, Cpt. Jampel. How are you, Sir?"

"We're both fine, Sergeant. We heard you and the boys held the line. Well done," the captain replied.

"Thank you, Sir." Saunders chuckled. "Even the rear echelon guys did a good job of flushing the village after the artillery chased the Krauts out, an' standing watch until we were relieved."

Hanley laughed. "Yes, we also heard about the artillery. You know, Saunders, you shouldn't tell a colonel 'no'."

At the time, the sergeant hadn't given any thought to the fact that Archangel was a colonel, so he tried to make light of the situation. "Oh, I thought he was just a captain," he said with a grin.

Cpt. Jampel smiled. From previous conversations with Hanley, the captain was aware that this sergeant had opinions and wasn't afraid to let the lieutenant know them. That was something junior officers were, unfortunately in his view, often hesitant to do. Which was why he had no qualms about what he was about to say.

"Sergeant, I'll be putting through the paperwork for your battlefield commission to 2nd Lieutenant as soon as I'm out of here. With Lt. Hendricks dead, I'll need a good man to take over First Platoon."

Saunders looked at the captain and then at his friend. Hanley was grinning at him. The sergeant shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, Captain, but I have to respectfully decline. I'm a pretty good sergeant, but I'd make a lousy second louie."

"Lt. Hanley said that's what you'd say. You should think about it…turning down a commission isn't a very good career move."

The NCO chuckled. "That's okay, Captain. I don't intent on making the Army a career. I'm only here for the duration plus six."

Hanley decided to take Saunders off the hook, "Sergeant, do you have any cigarettes? I could use a smoke."

"Sure. Captain?"

"Yeah, thanks. Take a seat. No need to stand on formality."

The three men smoked quietly for several minutes.

()()()()()()()()()()

Outside, a jeep pulled up at the château and a colonel and a captain got out. The captain told the driver to wait and the two officers headed for the front door. The colonel stopped and surveyed the men sprawled on the grass off to the side of the entrance. He walked over to them.

"WHAT OUTFIT ARE YOU MEN FROM?" he bellowed.

"What's it to ya, Mac…" Kirby said as he turned his head and looked up into the sun trying to make out the man who had disturbed the peace. He squinted and shaded his eyes. "Sheez… ATTENTION!" he said as he jumped up.

The rest of the men turned to look at Kirby, saw the colonel, and also jumped up and fell in at attention beside the BAR man.

"I said, WHAT OUTFIT ARE YOU MEN FROM?"

"K…K…King Company, S…S…Second Platoon, F…F…First Squad, S…S…Sir," Billy stammered.

'Well isn't that an interesting coincidence,' thought the colonel. 'I'll bet White Rook is around here someplace.' He paced up and down in front of the men. The captain stood off to the side with a little smirk on his face. He had seen this performance before.

The colonel stopped in front of the BAR man. Kirby stood up even straighter and gave a salute which the colonel returned. "What's your name, soldier?"

"Kirby, Sir. Pvt. William G. Kirby."

The colonel leaned forward. "Have you got lice, Pvt. Kirby? I saw you scratching your armpit as I approached."

"No, Sir. Just an itch, Sir."

The colonel continued to eyeball Kirby and finally said, "Tuck that shirt tail in, Pvt. Kirby."

"Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir."

The colonel moved down the line and stopped in front of Caje. Again, salutes were exchanged.

"What's your name, soldier?"

"LeMay, Sir. Pfc. Paul LeMay."

"Get your helmet on Pfc. LeMay. This isn't a costume party."

"Yes, Sir," the Cajun replied.

Caje took off his beret and put on his helmet. He gave his friend a sideway glance and saw Kirby roll his eyes as he tucked in his shirt. The colonel continued down the line and stopped in front of Billy. Again, salutes were exchanged.

"What's your name, soldier?"

"Nelson, Sir," Billy croaked. "Pvt. Billy…I mean William Nelson."

There was a chuckle at the other end of the line but when the colonel turned to look, all he saw were somber faces with eyes forward.

"When was the last time you shaved, Pvt. Nelson?"

"Ah…f…f…four days ago, Sir."

"FOUR DAYS! WHO'S YOUR NCO?"

"S…S…Saunders, Sir, S..S…Sgt. Saunders. But we've…" A glare from the colonel shut the private up.

"AS YOU WERE MEN! Let's go, Captain."

Once the officers had entered the château, the squad collapsed back to where they had been sprawled.

"You shouldn't have told him the Sarge's name," Littlejohn said somberly to his young friend. "Now Saunders is gonna be in trouble."

"But I had to, Littlejohn. He was looking right at me," the distressed young soldier said.

"Ya shoulda told him Sgt. Dickens. He's dead so the Army can't court-martial him," Kirby said, joining in the fun of harassing poor Billy.

"COURT-MARTIAL!" exclaimed Billy.

"Don't worry, Billy. Letting us go four days without shaving…The Sarge will probably only lose a stripe," added Doc with a twinkle in his eye.

"OH NO!" moaned Billy. "The Sarge is gonna be mad at me for sure."

()()()()()()()()()()

Hanley broke the silence. "How's my temporary replacement doing?"

"Not too bad for a ninety-day wonder. At least he asks questions and listens to advice," Saunders responded.

"A good officer should always listen to what his sergeants tell him. Isn't that what I always say, Cpt. Nybeck?" the colonel said as he entered the room, having heard the preceding exchange.

"Yes, Sir. You say that at least twice a day, Sir," the captain, his aide, replied with a smile.

The sergeant stood up and came to attention. He gave the colonel a crisp salute which the colonel returned in kind. The officer looked him over, seeing the dirty and torn uniform, the dried blood below the right knee of his trousers and the bandage beneath the torn fabric. He looked at the sergeant's dirty face with its four day stubble and light sheen of perspiration, the tired blue eyes and the unruly mop of blonde hair.

'For some reason' he thought, 'this man looked familiar, but I can't place him.' He had seen so many young men in the last few years.

"As you were, Sergeant. Take a load off. You just get off the line?"

"Yes, Sir," Saunders answered as he sat down. But, he didn't relax. He didn't know for sure who this colonel was, but he had a feeling it might be Archangel.

"You're Saunders, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I'm Colonel Dale…also known as Archangel."

Saunders didn't say anything. If the colonel was expecting an apology or an explanation for the way the sergeant had spoken to him on the radio, he was going to be disappointed.

Cpt. Nybeck stood off to the side, with a little smirk on his face. He was looking forward to hearing what the colonel had to say to White Rook. Everyone at HQ had heard about the NCO who had told the colonel 'no'.

"I met your squad as I was coming in. They looked like a good bunch of men."

"They're all good men, Colonel," Saunders replied without dropping his gaze.

The colonel walked over to the open window and looked down. He could see the squad on the grass below, still waiting for their sergeant. He walked back to the doorway, continuing to rack his brain. 'Where do I know this man from?'

"So they are, Sergeant…so they are," he responded.

Then it came to him…the Kasserine Pass. The ill-fated 168th Regiment and the baby-faced Pfc. who had led a squad of men back after they had all been written off. He had earned another stripe for his actions in that battle. But, he was no longer baby-faced. He seemed to have aged ten years and his blue eyes reflected not only physical fatigue, but also a deep weariness from having witnessed too much in the last year and a half. They were the same changes he had seen in the faces of too many young men.

"What happened to the rest of the squad, Pfc. Saunders?" the colonel quietly asked.

The sergeant looked startled. He continued to stare at the officer while Lt. Hanley and Cpt. Jampel exchanged questioning glances. Hanley shook his head slightly. Saunders had never talked about the action he had seen before they met in England, so the lieutenant didn't know what the colonel was referring to.

But now the NCO did. Dale…that was the name of the captain who had questioned them when they finally made it back to the American lines after they were abandoned at the Kasserine Pass.

The room was silent as the officers waited for the NCO to speak.

Saunders winced as he stood and walked with a limp over to the window. Out of habit, he ran his fingers through his hair as he looked down at his squad. But, it wasn't First Squad from the Second Platoon of the 361st's King Company that he saw. It was the laughing young men of Third Squad from the First Platoon of the 168th's Fox Company who were sprawled on the grass below. They had been so young…so cocky…so naïve.

Cpt. Nybeck took a step forward. He was about to tell the sergeant to answer the question and not keep the colonel waiting. But, Dale raised his hand to stop his aide.

Finally, the NCO turned around and said, "One was killed shortly after I got promoted to corporal…Two were wounded and sent home…Another got it in Italy." There was a long pause. "The last guy was killed shortly after Omaha Beach."

Hanley knew he had to be referring to Cpl. Grady Long. He had never seen Saunders so distraught as when Long was killed.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant. They were good men…At least this time we're the ones who did the clock cleaning," Col. Dale said, referring to the comment that had been made by one of those young soldiers.

The room was quiet again as both the colonel and the sergeant relived their brief meeting which had occurred so many lifetimes ago. At last, the colonel spoke.

"Cpt. Nybeck, make arrangements for Sgt. Saunders and his squad to be billeted at the mayor's house."

"The mayor's house, Sir?" The captain seemed surprised. The mayor's house was where the brass had been billeted when they came to visit the front lines.

"You heard me, Captain…and get them some new uniforms." The colonel turned his attention to the sergeant as the captain hurried from the room to make the necessary arrangements. "I think you'll like it there," he chuckled, "It has hot running water."

"Thank you, Sir." He looked at Lt. Hanley and Cpt. Jampel before returning his gaze to the colonel. "If you'll excuse me, Sirs, we've only got a twenty-four hour pass." He gave the colonel a salute and exited the room.

"Interesting man. I take it he didn't accept the promotion," the colonel said after the sergeant was gone.

"No, Sir, he didn't," responded Cpt. Jampel.

Col. Dale walked back over to the window and watched as the sergeant come out of the château and a little pantomime took place as the squad gathered around him. He couldn't hear any words, only some faint laughter.

"We'd follow him through the gates of hell," the colonel said to himself.

"What was that, Colonel?" Cpt. Jampel asked.

"Oh nothing…just something someone said a long time ago."

()()()()()()()()()()

The squad stood as Saunders approached. Before he could say anything, Billy started a rambling apology.

"I'm sorry, Sarge…He asked me who our NCO was an' I told him an' now you're gonna get court-martialed an' lose a stripe an' it's all my fault…"

Saunders stared at Billy. He couldn't figure out what Nelson was going on about; first he was offered a commission and now he was going to be court-martialed, all in the space of half an hour? The rest of the squad started to laugh.

"It was like this, Sarge," Littlejohn said as he drew himself up to his full height and walked over to Kirby. Lowering his voice another octave, he said, "WHAT'S the matter with you, soldier?" He poked the BAR man in the chest with his finger, making him take a step backward. "You got LICE or something. GET that shirt tail tucked in."

Next Littlejohn walked over to Caje and pulled the beret off his head. "PUT on your helmet, soldier. WHAT do you think this is anyway, a MASQUERADE ball?"

The squad members were roaring with laughter as Littlejohn approached Billy. He bent over and got right in his face. "WHEN's the last time you shaved, soldier? FOUR DAYS! WHO'S your NCO? I'll have his ASS in a sling."

Saunders reached out and tousled poor Billy's hair. "Don't worry, Nelson. I think you're gonna like the accommodations at this stockade." He looked at the piece of paper the captain had given him.

"Caje, you think you can find this place?"

The Cajun read the directions and smiled. "Yeah, Sarge, I can find it."

Still laughing, the squad headed down the driveway behind the scout.

()()()()()()()()()()

()()()()()()()()()()

Historical Note:The Battle for Kasserine Pass was a series of encounters fought from February 14–24, 1943. Rommel's plan, Operation Spring Wind, was simple. His forces would counterthrust and penetrate deep into the Allied rear in the valleys around Sidi bou Zid, bypassing the 168th Regiment. He would deliver a resounding defeat to the inexperienced American troops.

At 0400 on February 14th, the crack 10th and 21st Panzer divisions, their movements covered by a swirling sand storm, launched an attack through the Faid and Maizila passes. The 7th Panzer and the 86th Panzergrenadier regiments rolled past the northern edge of the Lessouda djebel.

After two days of heavy fighting, the 1st Armored Division had lost ninety-eight tanks, fifty-seven half-tracks, and twenty-nine artillery pieces. Five hundred men had been killed or wounded. The infantry trapped on the Lessouda and Ksaira djebels was written off and the soldiers were told to make it back to the Allied lines as best they could.

Of the 30,000 Americans who took part in the ten days of fighting, 300 were killed, 3,000 were wounded and 3,000 were reported as missing or surrendered. Those who surrendered would spend the next twenty-seven months as prisoners of war. Only a few hundred men from the 2nd and 3rd Battalions of the 168th Infantry who were dug in on the Lessouda and Ksaira djebels made it safely through the German lines and back to their own.

Main Source: "Facing the Fox" by Brian John Murphy. _America in WWII _magazine.


End file.
